


Cruel Creatures

by piratequeen



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratequeen/pseuds/piratequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting for fighting's sake is one thing. But vengeance, that is another thing entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruel Creatures

_If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?_  
-William Shakespeare

Nassau, Bahamas  
1710

Flint wasn’t sure what time it was when he arrived at Miranda’s house; all he knew was that it was late. Fires were burning bright in many a hearth as he walked along the dusty road towards the interior of the island.

He and his crew had just gotten back from a raid; a large, fat merchant ship had almost fallen on to their lap on their way back to Nassau. It had been a good haul, sugar and tobacco, all of which would make for good coin when his crew brought it to Ms. Guthrie.

He could see the lights from Miranda’s farmhouse now. The candles in the window flickered steadily as his leather boots slapped the dirt road.

The old wooden door creaked open on its rusty hinges; it had been old when they had bought it and although Miranda had tried to brighten the place up, the dust and the dirt just seemed to sneak right back in.

“Miranda?” Flint called.

Usually she was at the table, reading, or in her bedroom but that was not the case tonight. Flint looked around, there were candles in the window, a few pieces of laundry drying outside, but mostly there were books. Piles of books scattered all around the house.

Some were books that Flint had taken from captain’s quarters on the ships that he had raided, but most of them were Thomas’s. They were some of the few things that Miranda and Flint had been able to take with them when they fled London.

“Miranda?” Flint called again.

“In here” came the response from the bedroom.

Flint walked through the house, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He found her sitting on her bed, with a letter in her hand.

“When did you get back?” she asked tiredly.

Everything about her was tired these days. Her beauty was undeniable still after all this time, but there was something in her posture, in the way she spoke that was tired. When she looked at him her eyes were filled with loss, and bone weary tiredness.

“Two hours ago. We had to drop off the cargo at a warehouse”

She nodded.

Sometimes during his darkest times, Flint wondered why they kept up this useless charade. Something in his worst moments he hated her; for her tiredness, for her love of Thomas, for the pain that she caused him, and he knew that sometimes she hated him as well. But for all their hate, he knew that they could never let each other go.

They were all that they had left of Thomas. The only two people in the world who had loved him completely. So they stayed, in order to keep remembering, in order to keep on feeling the pain, because without one another and without the pain, one of them would forget or move on and Thomas would be lost.

“Oh” was all she said.

She was on her bed; her once lustrous, dark hair was down around her shoulders. Her face that had once shone with life, was now downcast and sad, eyes tinged with red. In her hand she held a letter, Flint could not see what it said but the ink gleamed when the light from the candle caught it.

“Who is the letter from?” he asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway, unsure if he was to come in.

“Peter” her hands shook as she said this.

“Peter? Peter Ashe? After all these years. Does he have any news?” Flint said, striding over to sit down next to her on the bed.

Miranda gave him the letter. The tight script, and the sent of ink reminded him of the days, long ago, when he would spend hours peering over Peter Ashe’s shoulder, as he wrote a letter. Flint turned his attention back to the letter at hand.

 _My Dear Mrs. Hamilton,_  
_May these years have found you in good health. You told me long ago, that you and James were going to go to Nassau, I pray that you are still there and that this letter reaches you. It has been many years since I have seen you but I hope that you still think of me from time to time, as I know that I think of you, Thomas, and James often._  
_It is with the most urgent tidings that I send this message for I bring you grave news. Your husband, Lord Thomas Hamilton…_

Flint did not read past this line.

“What happened to Thomas? He is still in that fucking asylum?” Flint said.

His eyes scanning the rest of the letter for clues that told of Thomas’s release.

“He’s dead, James” Miranda said, her voice barely a whisper.

“What?” he said, his head snapping up to look at her.

Her lips were pursed, and her eyes were shimmering with tears.

“He killed himself. That’s what the rest of the letter says.”

“No. Thomas wouldn’t” Flint stood up and crossed the room.

“Thomas would. When he found out that the plan for Nassau would fail, he requested a letter opener, and slit his own wrists” Miranda said.

She was standing up now and was advancing towards Flint, who had backed up so his back was against the wall. Tears were now freely falling down her face, but her mouth was twisted in a snarl as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to yell or cry.

Her legs apparently decided for her gave out from under her, and she fell to the floor, rocking back and forth, sobbing.

Flint slid slowly down the side of the wall, he was breathing heavily. He opened his mouth to say something but as soon as he made a sound his voice broke and suddenly he was sobbing as well tears running down his face and splashing onto his breeches.

“I want him dead”

Flint looked up. Miranda was still on the floor, but she was staring at Flint. The letter was crumpled in her fist and her eyes were ringed with red from the tears. The look she wore was one of grief and anger.

“What?” Flint said, his voice still gruff from tears.

“I said that I want him dead. Alfred Hamilton, I want him dead. He locked Thomas up there. He deserves to die.”

Flint looked up at her and at the letter in her hand. Thomas. Thomas, who had been kind. Thomas, who had been merciful. Thomas, who would have been saddened to see what the two people he loved most in the world had become.  
Flint had never been as kind or as gentle as Thomas; he had always been quick to anger, quick to throw the first punch. Even Miranda had been harsher than her lord husband.

“Find him. Execute him. For the love you bore Thomas. Kill Alfred Hamilton.”

Thomas had always been their heart and it was cruel animals that were born when the heart dies.


End file.
